


Right Way Down

by uselessenglishmajor



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Head Boy Draco Malfoy, Head Girl Hermione Granger, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Quidditch, Quidditch Player Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley Bashing, Tropes, Tropes everywhere!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:21:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22979032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uselessenglishmajor/pseuds/uselessenglishmajor
Summary: Draco has a plan. Hermione has a problem.Hogwarts’ first post-war Head Boy and Head Girl are going to have to work all their issues out.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 148
Kudos: 1125





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I am back with another id-stroking self-indulgent mindless detour into Dramione trope central. This is all to cater to my own preferences, so apologies in advance. Ron is getting the OOC pantomime villain treatment because that is my jam. Bear with me. Part 2 will most likely happen whenever I have to scratch my singular itch once again. 
> 
> Also, sorry to my Reylo readers but I couldn’t deal with all the post-TROS novelization bullshit. I promise I’ll be back to wrapping up _Free to Fall_ soon enough.
> 
> Happy Sunday to y’all! <3
> 
> WARNINGS FOR: Ron being an ass and not respecting Hermione’s boundaries; gratuitous use of the word _mudblood_.

“‘Mione, come on.”

Ron’s hands run beneath her shirt. His lips maul her neck as she feels his hot touch on her, close to her bra. Hermione turns her head away.

“I—”

He wants in her pants but she’s wearing jeans and she’s not ready. Her legs are numb from where they are folded on the sofa, and her body leans back instinctively, trying to keep away.

He’s so insistent. The kissing had been fine. It was fun and new and there was no longer a war, at least not the kind that she knew how to fight. They had returned together to finish their final year at Hogwarts, Ron deferring the offer to train as an auror with Harry just so they would not be apart. She was made Head Girl and had her own room. Ron was pleased, said they should take full advantage of the opportunities to be alone. At least one of them is taking full advantage, she thinks.

He’s tugging at her bra clasp unsuccessfully. His fingers are blunt and uncoordinated against her skin.

“What’s wrong?” His torso hangs big and heavy over hers, arms trapping her, mouth still searching for a place that will make her feel good.

“Ron—”

She tries to find that place too, has been trying. All he wants is to take, one step and then another; more and more. She’s not ready. She—

The portrait door opens. Ron’s whole body tenses. “Malfoy,” he says in a disgusted hiss she can feel as much as hear. Still, Ron doesn’t pull away. Why doesn’t he? She hates that there’s an audience.

Being Head Girl comes with living with Head Boy. Despite all Ron’s assurances and protestations, the reality is that they are rarely alone.

Her roommate strolls in still wearing his Quidditch uniform, smeared in mud and damp from the rain. He stares at them with a tired indifference. Hermione feels her cheeks warm at his cold surveying.

“What are you looking at?” Ron says.

Malfoy drops his bag and moves to the small kitchen area. “An anticlimax,” he says. He pours himself a glass of water and drinks, his back to them as Ron glares and Hermione tries to shrink into herself. He leaves the glass in the sink and moves to the staircase. “I need a shower.” His eyes drift over them as he climbs the first step. “Feels like I’m drowning in mud.”

“Did you hear that?” Ron growls as the bathroom door closes. “How can you stand to live with him?”

“He’s not so bad.” Hermione tries to put some distance between them, brings her knees up and wraps her arms around them. Ron is done glaring at the top of the stairs.

“Don’t lie; he still hates you. They should never’ve let him back in, let alone made him Head Boy.”

“Minerva had her reasons; and—”

“You don’t have to defend him.” His hands pull on hers, drag her back towards him as he reaches for her blouse. “There’s still time.”

She lets him kiss her just to make the talking stop. He’s as prejudiced as any pureblood when it comes to Draco Malfoy and the rest of the returning Slytherins. And Malfoy might still hate her guts but he’s not the worst roommate or Head Boy and certainly a far better student than Ron could hope to be. And he paid for his part in the war. They imprisoned his father and his mother is under house arrest; much of their assets were lost and he’s on probation too. Even her word and Harry’s could only do so much at his trial. There’s something quiet and dignified about him now. It’s the same way she feels for what she went through. Nothing to celebrate or gloat about; just the mundane job of getting on with living, of trying to move on. Ron doesn’t get that, won’t forget but likes to speed ahead. It’s why he’s started to unbutton her shirt.

“Stop,” she whispers.

“What?” The kisses to her neck still do nothing. His hands are clumsy, and she’s turned off. It feels all wrong. “I can be quiet.” He palms a breast through her bra. “You like this, don’t you?”

No.

“I—”

“Are you done?”

Malfoy is once more at the top of the stairs, changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt. He rubs a towel over still wet hair as he makes his way down towards them.

“What’s it to you?” Ron at least retracts his hand from her chest so he can turn to the constant focus of his ire.

“Well, beyond your lack of social graces and animalistic pawing in a communal space I use, Granger and I have certain Head duties to discuss. She probably forgot to mention it since she was clearly so caught up in the throes of desire.”

Hermione cannot make eye contact with him as Malfoy watches her, now reduced to their level as he crosses the common room.

“Do you mind?” he says at Ron, raising a single pale eyebrow.

Ron looks back at Hermione. “Are you gonna—?”

“It’s fine, Ron. Malfoy’s right.” She sees her boyfriend’s face redden. “I completely forgot.”

“Fine.” He gets up, grabbing his things and butting shoulders with an unfazed Malfoy as he passes. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”

Malfoy smirks as Ron leaves; it vanishes when the portrait door closes. Hermione fumbles to button up her shirt.

“What did you want to talk about?” she says.

He retrieves his sports bag and heads back up the stairs. “Nothing.”

“But—?”

“I gave you an exit and you took it. If you want to thank me, keep your neanderthal mate out of my face.”

Hermione hears his bedroom door shut loudly. She falls back against the sofa, more alive at the words out of Malfoy’s mouth than at any time when Ron had forced his touch upon her.

* * *

He doesn’t know why he’s angry.

There are enough other things to rage about: his fall from grace, the public dredging of his family through society’s mud, all the anticipation that he’s going to fuck this second chance up and there won’t be another one again.

So why does he care who Granger’s fucking? (Or desperately trying not to.)

He wasn’t exactly ecstatic to discover they would be Head Boy and Head Girl. He was mostly shocked that he was awarded the title, another test bestowed by the powers that be he was set up to fail. Well, he’d repaired that Vanishing Cabinet against everyone’s expectations. Unwinnable odds just make him more determined.

Still, despite their past and his own reservations, Granger has been considerate and their living together tolerable. She stood up for him during his Ministry trial and he would never forget it. He might be rude and still see her Muggle birth as beneath his pureblood heritage, but she has earned his respect and treats him like any other fellow student, never dragging up the past unlike others, who cast shit about as readily as primates. She is smart and capable and seems unbreakable in her convictions. Which is why it makes exactly zero sense that she would put up with Weasel.

Draco had seen it coming since their fifth year, and he knew all too well that enduring a war side by side could create an exaggerated sense of intimacy. He sought his own physical comfort where he could with the few who did not revile him. But the war is over now. All commonality between her and the grotesque imbecile is gone, save for their shared connection with Scarface.

He doesn’t care. It’s not his business. Yet he can no longer stand having his only private space filled with Granger visibly squirming in the Weasel’s filthy hold.

The girl doesn’t fancy him so what is she thinking? Why doesn’t she just tell him no?

He lies on his bed with these useless thoughts, his gaze burning through the ceiling, his magic clawing like a hungry dragon, forever prowling beneath his skin.

* * *

He’s already gone when she wakes the next morning. He rises early and goes to bed late and she wonders if it’s only to train or to study or if there’s another person he spends his time with or maybe if it’s many. She wonders when she started wondering what Draco Malfoy does with his day.

Ron is late to breakfast and squeezes her knee as he squeezes in beside her. He massages her thigh and it’s enough to make her want to give up on her cornflakes. She has to pry his hand off using both of her own.

“No one can see,” Ron says, as if that’s the only problem.

She doesn’t like to be touched. She must be one of those people, their boundaries set and easily crossed. She doesn’t know; she’s not experienced. There had been one messy snog with Viktor, his hands staying firm on her shoulders for the entirety like it was she who was holding them up. And then this, whatever it is that Ron’s hands do. What he wants. What makes him feel good. It isn’t what she likes. She might not know but had always imagined: a meeting of minds, not sweaty palms against her skin.

As a girlfriend, she’s a prude.

Ron is distracted as someone else enters the hall. A head of white-blond hair, she can see his pale throat, Adam’s apple bobbing as he guzzles from a bottle of water. He’s in a t-shirt and sweats like he was the night before. He’s been running; she can see it now in the sheen of perspiration, a faint dash of color to his cheeks. He’s lithe and long and he likes working out. She hears him in his bedroom on occasion and she’s seen his weights and a pull-up bar, breadcrumbs to what he keeps as a private routine.

Malfoy plonks himself down at the head of the Slytherin table, unbothered and unwanted but still proud, like the loneliest of kings. He piles his plate high, mostly eggs plus toast and a variety of fried meats. He drinks his coffee black and sweet and makes no effort at small talk, ignoring the stares of distant neighbors, fascinated girls and resentful boys alike.

Hermione finds she also likes to stare. She must be one of those people.

“Who does he think he is?” Ron says.

Hermione doesn’t know; she doesn’t know anything.

“Who cares?” The voice is Dean’s. “You guys still coming to the party tonight?”

Ron answers for them. “Of course. Wouldn’t miss it.”

“I’ve got patrol—” Hermione starts.

“Can’t you swap with someone?”

“Malfoy won’t—”

“Malfoy can do it on his own!”

Malfoy looks across at them, Ron’s voice loud enough that most of the Great Hall must have heard him. Hermione looks back. His face is expressionless, but his eyes are lit with the small and unspoken flame of challenge. “I’ll see you in class,” she says and stands, gathering her books into the bottomless pit of her beaded bag.

“Don’t be mad,” Ron says.

Hermione steps out of his reach and starts walking, her back to all the tables. “How would you even know what I am?”

* * *

His first class is Advanced Potions.

He arrives late, going back to the dorms to shower and change after having a second helping at breakfast. He is used to the stares; he is used to hearing his name in poorly hushed conversations and others that are deliberately audible. He is used to Granger’s shame and awkwardness at the situation. He does not seek compassion and abhors the slightest hint of pity. The world is a cruel and lonely place and its inhabitants are a bunch of boring, loathsome hypocrites. And it doesn’t matter what side you were on. His side’s now his own and he stands proudly with no one.

He sees Granger surrounded by friends but walking solo, shoulders slumped and posture broken. Little Golden Girl lost. Ironic and undeserved. Why should it bother him?

He goes to sit at the back of the classroom beside her, paying no mind to the scolding of Slughorn and the pointless docking of points. She’s already got her quill out and is furiously scribbling notes, focused on the same extra credit assignment that he’s taken. Advanced Potions is beneath them both. The rest of the class is irrelevant; Slughorn’s got his hands full just trying to keep them from hurting themselves. Still even this is too advanced for that intellectual gnome that is the Weasel. It’s one blessed lesson at least spared from his bloated red waste of pureblood genes.

“You’re not including the crushed salamander tooth?” Draco says, unfurling his own parchment.

Granger doesn’t miss a beat. “It’ll cancel out the efficacy of the doxy saliva—oh.” She blinks and glances over at him as if realizing they are having a conversation, which they are, since he bothered to initiate it. He smiles, and her eyes avert from his. “Were you testing me?”

“Not like I can catch you out.”

They work in a companionable silence. They aren’t companions, but they are studious and can concentrate for more than five consecutive minutes on the task at hand, unlike their fellow students. When the second hour draws ever closer to its finish, Draco holds out his parchment in the wordless implication that they should exchange notes. Granger nods her agreement. Her penmanship is lacking but her thesis is brilliant. Draco tries not to be jealous.

“This is good,” she says, eyes pouring over his work.

“Yours is better.”

“No—”

“Shut up and take the compliment, Granger.” He takes his parchment back and packs up his things.

“Where are you going?”

“Library.”

“Mister Malfoy,” Slughorn says, noticing him rise from his seat, “the lesson isn’t over.”

“It never is,” he mutters and strolls out the door, somehow resisting the urge to slam it behind him.

Mudblood, mudblood, mudblood, he thinks but it doesn’t help and the jealousy takes over.

Even now, after everything, this insecurity eats away at him. His father’s voice, his peers’ stares, the itch of the mark on his arm. He is a product of expectation, spat out into the world with its weight tied to his shoulders. He didn’t learn to walk; he only staggered before running. But he cannot run away. Not really. Not ever.

He goes to the library and looks up every reference that Granger cited and he’d never even thought about. He has to charm Madam Pince into giving him access to some and it feels like he’s debasing himself, crawling belly-first on the ground through the dirt that the Gryffindor princess was able to float across. It’s not her fault; it’s his. The clawing starts to hurt and it’s ready to break the surface. He grabs an apple and two sandwiches for lunch then disappears, missing the rest of classes and fleeing to the Quidditch field.

On his broom, two hundred feet above the ground, Draco breathes and sees this useless world for what it is, a tiny patch of unremarkable green.

He couldn’t walk and he still can’t run but there is something he can do better than anyone.

His earliest memory is of his father’s words on receiving his first broom:

A wizard must know how to fly.

* * *

She’s pacing, undecided, changed into a too-short floral dress and Doc Marten boots so she can go to the party but she can do patrol duty as well. Can she do both? Does she want to? She hates her indecision, had endured Ron’s incessant nagging throughout dinner as he apologized and begged. He wants her there so he can touch her. Not to talk. Not to exist in each other’s company. Minds mean nothing, only hands with him. And maybe she’s finally had enough.

She doesn’t know where Malfoy is. She hasn’t seen him since he left Advanced Potions and Slughorn conveyed his displeasure to her like she had any control over what the Head Boy did. “Take it up with Headmistress McGonagall,” she told him, and he had looked affronted; she so rarely ever talked back to teachers. But there are more words inside and angry thoughts and she’s filled by a growing sense of injustice, like her own special oxygen she inhales and converts into righteous energy. House elves or Slytherin boys; if they’re persecuted then she will take up their cause. She will shout their names from the turret-tops.

Malfoy has higher marks than her in Potions and is second in every other class. He has met every deadline and completed every project. So what exactly is there to punish him for?

He enters as the clock hits the hour and their evening of patrolling is meant to begin. His hair is windswept and he looks angry.

“I…” Her quandary has fallen out of her head.

“Here.” He snatches a parchment from his bag and shoves it into her hands. “Read this.”

“What is it?”

“I reworked that stupid Potions assignment. You gave me ideas.” He stands and crosses his arms. “Well?”

“We have patrol—”

“So why are you dressed like that?”

“There’s a party—”

“So? Go to it.”

“But I thought that you—”

“I don’t need you to babysit me, if that’s what you mean. I’m a big boy, Granger. I can handle one sodding patrol.”

“Are you sure?”

He steps closer. He’s grown taller, maybe even taller than Ron, but he feels as big as Hagrid when he turns his gaze down on her. “What do you want to do?” he says.

“I don’t know.”

“Read it.”

“What?”

He nods at the parchment. “I need your opinion. Read it and bore me to tears. Make me feel suitably small.”

“Should I—?”

“Geez, how did you win the war? Just come with me. You can join your precious Gryffindors later, tell them how you put that no-good Death Eater snake back in his place.”

“You sound like you think that it’s bad.”

“Grab your wand and move your arse.”

She does. He’s good at ordering her with his words, not his hands, and she’s amenable to that. She lacks in direction these days and she’s missed being commanded.

She keeps his parchment held up with a floating charm as they walk. The hallways are quiet and cool. It’s deep into autumn now with the promise of winter in the changing air and the premature dying of the days. She didn’t bring a cardigan and has to opt for a warming spell. Her skin is goose-pimpled but her attention is rapt: Malfoy’s handwriting is a beautiful and elegant scrawl that slopes to the right with the occasional smudge, a constant peril of being left-handed.

She enjoyed what she read at the start of the day. There were innovations she had not thought about, though they were risky and might only work in a theoretical sense. His arguments were interesting, if not wholly focused, but she thought overall he was more original than her and it bothered her that she was still so tied to the rules. Here, his thoughts are different; they are measured and controlled. Everything makes sense. It is faultless and—

“So?”

His back pauses ahead of her, shirt stretched taut over the breadth of his shoulders. She almost collides with him as she reaches the conclusion.

“Hold on.” He has applied the crushed salamander tooth and overcome all the risks involved. “You bloody git!”

He turns around and grins triumphantly, leaning sideways against the wall. He might normally be the personification of a sneer but right now he is something else entirely.

Hermione hopes she isn’t blushing as she childishly stamps her foot. “How did you figure this out in just an afternoon? It took me a whole weekend—”

“I know. You did the bulk of the work for me. Flawless research as always.”

“Then you cheated!”

He pushes off the wall in a flash. “I did not.” There’s only a layer of parchment between them now. “I work just as hard as you, Granger. Maybe even harder, not that you’d know it.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You’ve done your duty.” He steps back and cancels her charm with a wordless spell, the parchment recoiling to land in his palm. “Now run along and go have your fun. The lions’ den is waiting.”

He turns back around and marches down the corridor, raising his scroll like the baton in a race that he’s just won.

Did he win? Hermione’s not sure but she made him mad and maybe he did have a point. Nothing he wrote had plagiarized her work; he just took it to another level and she’s angry at herself. She hates to lose just as much as him. That damned stupid clever Slytherin.

She makes her way up to the Gryffindor tower, snaps the password at the tedious Fat Lady and accepts the first drink placed in her hand.

“You made it!” Ron says, slinging an arm around her and throwing her off balance. Its weight is heavy and he’s sloshed; she can smell it on his breath. “What took yer s’long?”

“Patrolling.”

“So did Malfoy—?”

“Shut up about Malfoy!”

Ron gives a crooked grin but it’s not appealing in the slightest, even if it is triumphant. “Can’t not agree with that.”

That’s a double negative, she wants to scream. Instead she downs her drink and lets him kiss her.

“You wanna go somewhere more private?” he says.

She nods or she doesn’t; she doesn’t know, but Ron only hears her agreement. With assumed acquiescence, he’s dragging up the stairs to the boys’ dormitory while she’s nursing her second glass.

“I like your dress,” he says, sitting down on his bed. He pulls her onto his lap. “T’short.” One hand is already under her skirt and he is kissing her neck. “Do you wanna—?”

“What?”

“Get undressed.”

He’s fumbling with the buttons. He didn’t ask but he can’t command. She wouldn’t do a thing he says, even if she’s normally stumbling behind him like a passive fool. I don’t want to, she thinks. “I don’t want to.”

Her dress rips.

He can see her bra now and he’s leaning down to kiss over her chest, lips hot as they slobber and the material turns wet. She really hates it. She pulls on his hair and tries to push him back. “Ron, stop it.” His hand is at her underwear, fingers tracing and trying to tug, and she’s squirming. “Stop it, I said!” She falls from his lap onto the floor.

“You okay?” He reaches a hand to help her back up and she slaps it away. “What is it?”

“Weren’t you listening?”

“When?”

“I don’t want to do this.”

“Do what?”

“All of it.”

“I can wait.”

“No, you can’t. And I don’t want you to. It’s not going to happen, Ron. I don’t want to sleep with you.” She says the words in one breath, like she’s been holding it in for far too long. “I don’t want you like that.”

He blinks as what she said gradually sinks in, but his reaction is predictable and swift. “Then get out.” He tosses her wand at her feet. “Fuck right off, ‘Mione. Since apparently no dick’s good enough for you.”

“It’s not like that,” she says.

“Then what’s it like? Is there someone else?”

“There’s no one else. It’s just not you.”

He huffs. “You fucking frigid bitch. Good luck dying a virgin.”

She climbs to her feet and crudely pulls her dress back together. She won’t fix it, not like this. “There are worse fates to be had,” she says. Her wand’s in her hand and she points, sees the fear in Ron’s eyes at the tip by his throat. That’s enough, she thinks; she’ll be going now.

“Go fuck yourself, Ronald.” She pauses by the door. “You and your right hand are made for each other.”

* * *

She’s back before him. That didn’t take long. He goes to the kitchen to make coffee, fills the kettle and sets it on the stove.

“You want a drink?” he says. She says nothing. He looks at her and finally sees her.

She is sat in that small pitiful way, legs pressed tight together and hands clasped in her lap. Her head is down, bushy mane obscuring her face, but he can hear her sniffle. She’s crying then. Can’t be good but can he be bothered? The Weasel’s a whole six-foot-plus of disappointment. What did she expect? He’s the place where expectations go to die.

Draco leans back against the counter. “What is it then?”

She shakes her head. At least that mass of hair sways from side to side.

“Did something happen? Granger?”

If it’s possible, she somehow becomes smaller, and it’s starting to freak him out.

“What did he do?”

“He…” She hiccups; how long has she been crying for? “I’m fine.” She stands up. “I’ll be going.”

No you won’t, he thinks.

He easily beats her to the bottom of the stairs. “Granger.” She looks up, eyes red and face puffy; he’s yet to meet a girl who’s a pretty crier. “What is it?” He keeps his hands from touching her. He’s not so good at comfort and she looks liked a scared rabbit about to dart for its burrow. She looks…

His eyes move down. He can see her bra exposed at the top of her dress. It wasn’t so revealing before but now there’s a tear and threads of cotton hang from where buttons used to be.

“Granger,” he says, and it takes actual Occlumency to will his voice to stay calm, “did that piece of shit hurt you?”

Her face falls against his chest and she sobs. Her tears are soaking into his shirt, probably snot as well, and it makes him momentarily nauseous. But he’s mad more than anything. He’s paralyzed with rage, like someone has cursed him immobile.

The kettle’s whistling; it’s about to boil over.

“Don’t go,” she begs.

Shit.

Draco’s left hand moves as if it’s not his own. He sees it rise; it’s there, hovering before his face, hovering above Granger’s head. What are you going to do, body that’s no longer under my control?

His hand comes to rest against the top of her head. Mostly hair. It’s soft and thick between his fingers. He expected something coarse like wire wool or netting. This is different. His fingers move. They stroke and play, and Granger presses her body closer against his.

“Did he hurt you?” he says again. He thinks about every Dark curse he knows. He’s the son of a pureblood gentleman. Funny thing about Lucius but, despite how cruel he can be, there are rules when it comes to women. He ruined his family’s lives and brought a terrible evil into their home, but he always treated Draco’s mother like a queen.

Mudblood but a girl, Draco thinks. “What did he do to you, Granger?”

“I’m fine,” she says.

“Sure.”

He’s seen her hurt so he knows, has heard her screams of pain echo through the Manor’s halls, in his worst nightmares. There are rules when it comes to women and there’s a line when it’s her.

“I couldn’t… I couldn’t sleep with him.”

Good.

“I’m going to make tea now,” he says. “You’re in no fit state for coffee.” That makes her laugh. “Sit,” he tells her. “Be a good girl.” She moans.

The kettle spits and rattles on the stove, and water bubbles over, hissing as it evaporates. There’s a tension brewing when it should only be tea. Fucking tea. Just do as you are told. Listen to me.

Her shoulders are small and slumped when he takes them in his hands. She’s tiny and delicate as a woman. He could easily break her; the fucking Weasel almost did. But as a witch, she’s formidable. There’s power in the slightest frame, magic that simmers, hot beneath his fingers. She’s just like water and he’s a volcano, a fire-breathing dragon in a human boy’s skin. Together they could make steam and, if they did, it would surely burn everything.

“Are you going to behave?”

She looks up and bites her lip. The kettle’s nearly boiled dry now. His fingers dig into her arms but she shows no signs of pain.

He guides her back until her legs hit the sofa and lets gravity do the rest. She is watching as he’s moving, needing his wand to levitate the molten kettle and refill it from the sink. This time it boils too slowly for his liking and so he relies on magic like he should have done in the first place.

“Chamomile,” he says, placing a mug on the table before her. There’s a vial in his hand that he _Accio_ ’d from his bag.

“What’s that?” she says as he holds it up to show her.

“Calming draught I made. Want to try it?”

“Okay.”

There’s an unspeakable amount of trust to the act as she lets him pour it in her tea. She’s a fool, he thinks, though he knows that it’s safe. I wouldn’t touch a thing anyone else in this school gave me. But that’s him. He has enemies. The Wizarding World is fine now for a Muggle-born in its superficial post-war fakery.

You’re going to learn the hard way, Granger.

He waits until she falls asleep. It doesn’t take long, and her mug is only half-empty (not half-full; he’s not an idiot). Slumped against the cushions, she’s at her smallest now, quiet and gut-wrenchingly vulnerable. She weighs nothing as he picks her up and carries her upstairs. He puts her to bed, puts back together her dress and covers her with what to him looks like a cheap and ratty duvet.

Dream a dreamless dream, he thinks, and returns to the common room. Half-empty still, he downs what is left in her mug and hopes that he has the same dream as well.

* * *

Hermione enters the Great Hall like it’s the final battle against Voldemort.

To her right she can see the Slytherin table. Malfoy is at his pariah’s throne, dressed in full robes and his usual sneer. He was gone when she woke, not unusual, though the night before had been. She’s still drunk on his spell and charmed by his kindness. His calming draught had worked wonders. She feels well rested and strong. She looks at him and he dares to make eye-contact. There’s no expression, no light of challenge, not much of anything until his eyes narrow in poisoned hatred as they drift dangerously over to Ron.

There, to her left, she can see the Gryffindor table. All her friends who ignored her fleeing from the party, despite the tears in her dress and the loud voices they must have heard from upstairs. She hates the conservative nature of even the most modern-thinking witches and wizards: that you do not interfere in others’ personal affairs. And at the root of it all, her darkest fear: that their loyalty to him is more than it will ever be to her.

Thank you, Malfoy, she thinks and hopes he might deign to share that recipe of his. She walks proud and tall at five-foot-three as she approaches her house’s table.

“Good morning,” she says and takes a seat between Ginny and Dean. Ron and Parvati are sat opposite them, and there is the usual contingent of other seventh and returning eighth years.

Everyone exchanges glances until Ron breaks in. “Morning,” he grunts then goes back to shovelling scrambled eggs and baked beans down his throat. Parvati stares at her shoes. Dean clears his throat with enough force that he starts coughing. Ginny glares at him as he holds out a glass and she leans past Hermione to fill it with milk.

“Is anyone going to address the awkward elephant in the room?” Hermione says, carefully laying a napkin across her lap.

“What elephant?”

“It’s a Muggle saying, Ron. I mean no one wants to speak about the obvious. So I will. Did you tell everyone that we broke up last night?”

“If that’s how you want to spin it,” Ron says.

“And how did you already spin it?”

Parvati rises suddenly from her seat and starts to excuse herself. “M’sorry,” she says, almost free when Ron stops her; his hand has latched onto her wrist and his thumb is stroking the skin there.

“She was there for me,” Ron says, eyes shifting to Hermione.

Hermione feels sick. It’s as if everyone around her is drawing away, or she’s drawing in on herself. The walls feel closer. The air is too thick. “There for you?” she repeats.

Ron stands beside his new savior and leans over the table. “There after you forced yourself on me.” Hermione leans back as he does, if only to avoid being spat on. “I had to fight you off. It was gross. Even when I said you don’t do it for me. But you can’t take no, never did. Boys’d never get away with how you treated me, ‘Mione.”

“Oh my god. You fucking hypocrite. You liar.”

“Yeah? You’re really going to play the victim now?”

Hermione looks around the table, but nobody is looking her way. She’s not believed, she knows; deep down, she always understood her place. Without Harry and unattached from Ron, she’s as much a pariah as Draco Malfoy is; Draco Malfoy, who has got up from his table.

Her eyes follow him as he crosses the room, hands in his robe pockets, not a care in the world. She pivots on the bench as he comes to a stop behind her. “Granger,” he says, his gaze fixed on Ron like he’s Voldemort’s rotting corpse, “grab that fashion eyesore you call a purse and come with me.”

“It’s not an eyesore,” she snaps but she wants to cry in relief.

“Love is blind, I guess.”

Malfoy is smirking. Ron is on the brink of an explosion, his face an unbecoming shade of pink that clashes with his hair.

“Ronald, just let it go,” Ginny says but he can’t, never could. Just like his inadequacies when it comes to Harry, his hands on Hermione that do what they want.

Hermione knows what it’s like when he explodes.

“Who’s the liar now then? You’ll put out for anything, even Death Eater scum?”

She’s out of her seat and Malfoy’s still close behind her. She wants to scream, wants to hex Ron into next week, until he begs, until he writhes and grovels and doesn’t forget who it is that he is messing with. They were friends but she carried him; he used her and took as he wanted whether she wanted to or not. Her wand arm is up, but it’s Malfoy who lands the first hit.

“I suppose that’s gotta hurt when she won’t put out for you.”

Ron has reached for his own wand now, spell at the tip of his tongue. Hermione is aware of the commotion from around and behind her; there are voices rising, calling out from the teachers’ High Table. Her vision is Weasley red in her rage; her heart is ready for battle.

Then she’s shoved aside, Malfoy reaching over to grab Ron by the wrist and slam his torso against the table. Face held down in Dean’s bowl of soggy cereal, Malfoy keeps gripping and twisting until Ron lets go of his wand.

“Mister Malfoy!”

Malfoy steps back. He turns and looks around. Most of the teachers have crossed the floor and now surround him, Hermione as well. She pushes herself forward to stand in front of him.

“Minerva, please, he was defending me; Ron started it—”

“He’s broken my bloody wrist!” Ron yells, cradling the injured appendage as milk drips from his face.

“Miss Weasley, please can you escort your brother straight to the infirmary,” Headmistress McGonagall says, at last living up to her title. “Mister Malfoy, Miss Granger, if you could come with me—”

“Fuck this,” Malfoy says. The staff and the rest of the student body appear to flinch at his outburst. He glares at them all and spins on his heel, storming to the doors and slamming them open.

“Draco, wait!”

“It’s fucking Draco now?” Ron says, shrugging off his sister’s help.

“I’d rather fuck him than you!”

Hermione doesn’t stop as she yells, doesn’t wait to see the look on Ron’s face or the expressions of everyone else in the Great Hall. She certainly doesn’t wait to hear the horrified admonishment of Minerva. Her legs move and she chases Draco down. Though she’s short, she’s determined. And she helped win a war on a lot less breakfast than this.

* * *

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

It’s over. One act of violence against that repulsive Weasel and his second chance is already ruined. It has barely been two months. All for a mudblood’s honor. Stupid girl. He got so mad, hearing how that bastard talked and seeing how her face fell and not a single one of her friends lifted a finger to defend her.

Loyalty is the rarest commodity there is, he knows. And now she has his. He doesn’t know why, but there’s something he sees that’s worth protecting. Not making amends; he’s beyond all that redemption shit. But Weasel raised his wand to a witch. Not just any witch. He raised it to Granger.

“Draco, slow down!”

She’s hurrying, out of breath behind him, nonsense curls wholly out of control, and she looks like a vision. She looks like his doom and destiny combined.

“Save yourself, Granger.”

“I’m here to save you!”

He rounds on her then and backs her up against the nearest wall. She’s small but defiant, even as he brings down a fist and slams it against the brick right above her.

“Don’t be so fucking pathetic,” he says.

“I—”

“You can’t even save yourself and you’re trying to save me? Take a look. I’m not the one who gets to be saved. I’m the one who fails; they set it up that way and your magical catch of an ex made damn sure it happened well ahead of schedule.”

“Is that what you think?”

He looks away; small hands take hold of his face, forcing him to see her.

“Why do you try so hard then?” she says.

“I—”

“You’re a good student. Intelligent and conscientious. You’ve always done your duty as Head Boy. And you took care of me. I don’t know why but you did, last night and back there.”

“You need taking care of,” he murmurs.

“I… I’d like to return the favor.”

“No. It’s done. I’ve fucked it up for good.”

“Don’t be so bloody dramatic.” She smiles, stroking his cheeks. “Did you really break his wrist?” she says.

“I don’t know.” He fucking hopes so.

“Thank you.” She leans up. “Can I kiss you?”

“What?”

“Can I—?”

A pity kiss of gratitude? “Get fucked.”

There are voices and footsteps from down the hall, likely teachers hot on both their trails or curious students come to witness the tragic fall of the last cursed Malfoy. Granger casts a quick disillusionment charm and takes hold of his hand.

“Come with me,” she says and drags him towards sanctuary.

“Quit stealing my lines.”

“Quit complaining!”

He doesn’t know where they are going but he uselessly follows, too tired to resist, too over it all to care about what happens. Granger is humming and muttering to herself and it’s an annoying quirk he’s mostly overlooked until she starts giggling.

“Do you think,” she says, “that there’s ever been a Head Boy and Head Girl who have been in so much trouble?”

“Do you get off on this? You freak of a witch.”

He tugs on her hand and she stumbles, blushing. “Shut up.”

“No.”

He grins until he sees they’ve reached the Astronomy Tower.

“This was your brilliant plan, Brightest Witch of Our Age?” He pulls his hand free and turns back in the direction they came.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to turn myself in.”

“Are you scared?’

“Yes. McGonagall’s a drunken House-Elf next to this.”

“I’m sorry. I just thought they wouldn’t think to look for us here.”

He looks down at the infuriating witch, still shorter than him at two steps above. “Fine.” He shoves past her up to the threshold and stops.

This is the precipice from where his life truly fell to shit. If he could’ve just cast that spell. If he could’ve asked for help much sooner. If he could’ve been The Boy Who Lived and not the boy who’s despised by all and sundry. Name and blood mean nothing in this new existence. He had a plan and it’s hanging from the edge of a precipice as well. Does he take the next step? Does he jump? Granger is shuffling behind him, at his back, agitated and trying to push.

“Aargh!” He screams (he made sure to cast a wordless silencing spell before he did). He wants to shatter the glass with his lungs. He wants to burn the bloody building down.

Granger shifts around him as he stalks to the center of the room. The whole scene is coming back to him and he wants to hex every ghost that haunts here, Snape and Dumbledore and the cowardly boy that he was.

“Draco,” Hermione says, and her arms come around him. She’s holding him about the waist, her petite body flush against his back, and he wants to squirm away. He wants to jump. He wants to—

She is screaming as well. “It actually does help,” she says.

“Not really.”

He turns in her hold and he’s looking down at her; she’s looking up at him. She’s messy yet prim and trying to be proper. He wants to ruin her for good like she keeps on ruining him.

He pulls on her hair hard enough that she winces. “Ow!”

“You still wanna kiss?”

“I…” She’s suddenly bashful now.

“What is it? I’m not going to make you, Granger.” He tilts her chin up so she’s forced to face him. “I’m not like him, okay?”

“I know that. I…”

“Say it. Tell me what you want to say. Anything you want to do.”

“I want to see you.”

“Huh?”

“I want to see what’s beneath.” Her head ducks down and her face hides against his chest. “I want to take off your shirt.”

“You don’t mess around.”

“Shut up! You asked me.”

“Okay.”

“What?”

“You can do it.”

He takes a step back and lets his robes drop, loosens his tie and removes it from around his neck. “You asked. I’m all yours.”

Fuck, she’s hot as a blushing virgin now. A blushing virgin who wants to strip him and touch him up. It’s a wholly new experience, staying still, being patient, having to wait and be the one who is taken.

Let’s not go that far, he thinks, but he wants to see how far she’ll take this.

He doesn’t move as she approaches, but he can still use his words. He wants to speak. He wants to hear what she’s got to say.

“Have you ever done this?”

“No.” Her hands reach for the first button and she slowly, gradually makes her way down. Each brush of her fingers is like a jolt though his system. He has to calm, to build up a wall inside his head and keep the now horny dragon at bay.

“You never got to see Weasel naked? What a shame.”

“I never got to— ” His shirt fully undone, she pushes it open. He hears her gasp, feels it like her ghosting fingers on his skin. He looks to see that she is looking at his scars and he doesn’t have the energy to explain.

Fucking Potter.

“You’re…”

Shit.

“It’s like someone carved you.”

Draco closes his eyes, words suddenly useless, and he lets himself feel for the first time in years.

Her hands start at his collarbones, light fingertip glances, then cautiously down, tracing the scars, pressing palms flat to his pectorals.

“I can feel your heartbeat,” she says.

“Hermione—”

First name terms. She started it before him, but her name is like a charm and his own sounds like a curse.

“Ssh.” She kisses him then right over his heart. Over his nipple. He’s getting hard. Her clumsy soft touches are going to kill him.

Fuck.

“You’re so fucking beautiful.”

Shut up, Mudblood, he thinks. Stop talking. Stop touching. Never stop. Get down on your knees and take it all in your mouth and let me thank you.

Gods, his mind is ugly.

She is tracing lower now, across his stomach, running her hands over abdominals he has worked hard to achieve; her thumbs explore every groove.

“How did you get like this?” she says. When did she start asking all the questions?

He finds his voice again but it’s a whisper, a heavy groan. “Like what?”

“Fit.”

“I’ve been training.”

“You like to run and do weights. Is it a healing thing?”

“Fuck no.” Has she been watching? “I need to. It’s all part of my plan.”

“Tell me,” she says.

“I’m going to go pro. Foreign Quidditch league. Maybe the States. Not this country. Fuck.”

“You could.”

“You’ve seen me play?”

“No. But you look good in your uniform.”

“You’re the scariest kind of perv. The kind they never warn about. Bookish girl with a fetish for—”

“What?”

He looks down at her. “It’s my turn now.”

“No.”

“Fair is fair.”

“You said you wouldn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to.”

“You want to though.” His hands glide over her breasts, nipples hard against his palms. She arches her back, pushing against him as his thumbs draw lazy circles. “Can I take your shirt off?”

“Yes.”

He makes deliberately slow work of her buttons, lets his hands trace under the cotton and across her soft skin. Her shirt falls to the floor and he reaches for her skirt, looking at her face as she sucks on her bottom lip, nods her consent as he unbuckles and draws down the zip.

Hermione Granger stands before him in white lace panties and a matching bra. Knee-high socks complete the look and he will gladly die here. Let McGonagall _Avada_ him for all of his sins.

“He didn’t know what to do with you,” Draco says.

“Who?”

He smiles. “He Who Must Not Be Named.”

She laughs and he pulls her against him, one arm around her waist. It’s narrow and her hips are curved and her breasts are surprisingly full. Who knew this was there? This perfect figure. “Your figure’s perfect,” he tells her.

“I didn’t know if…”

“What?”

“If I was attractive.”

“I’ll break his other wrist,” he growls. “You’re really fucking attractive, okay?” He scoops her up and she throws her arms around his neck. “Shall we take this somewhere more comfortable?”

Stretched out on a sofa, Draco proceeds to have the greatest make-out session of his life. Granger’s body is unnervingly responsive. The softest touch, the slightest caress has her writhing beneath him. Her mouth is sweet and she’s noisy. He eats up every moan, swallows every cry and _please_. He unhooks her bra and spends an eternity just worshipping her tits. Their size, their weight, the taste of her nipples, the texture of her areolae against his tongue. She grinds against the hardness at his crotch and she comes before he’s even moved lower than her chest.

“That was amazing.” Her first orgasm and it’s his; she’s dazed and deliciously limp in his hold. He moves his mouth to her stomach, not flat but the tiniest bit round. It makes her too fucking feminine, he thinks. She’s like a wet dream but he’s not dreaming. He’s jerked off more than once to an image like this. Tracing the ident of her navel, his hands explore the giving flesh of her thighs and buttocks. He’s bent down right between her now and he can smell her arousal.

“Draco,” she says.

“Just one taste.” He kisses the lace and sucks as her hips jerk from the cushions. “I could do this all day.”

He makes her come again, mouth and fingers working through her panties and she’s ready if the nod she gives to take them off is any indication.

“What about you?” She can barely speak. She has the ideal triangle of pubic hair. Soft. Has she never shaved? Never do, he thinks, and runs fingers down over her mound, teasing at her entrance.

“Can I?” he says.

“Draco!”

She’s tight like an unworn glove, new leather to be stretched. He tests her with one digit, then two.

“Can I fuck you?”

“Yes.”

He undoes his trousers and releases himself. He won’t last long. It’s been too much just to get her here, up to this point, too long since he had a woman who would let him. She’s staring, curious, and she wants to touch.

“Just be gentle.” He grins as he guides her small hand around him. She strokes and he hisses.

“Is this big?”

“What?”

“I have no basis for comparison.”

“Merlin, Granger. This isn’t a damn class.” He grabs her hands and pins her down, holding both by the wrists. She’s smiling as he leans over her. “Just know that this might hurt.”

“What does that mean?”

“I know you’re normally used to disappointment but I’m somewhat above average.”

“Oh.”

He closes his eyes and groans in exasperation. He should be inside her by now.

Soon he is, slowly, carefully at first. He watches her and sees her bite her lip and leans down closer, nose brushing hers as he assures her, “You’re doing so good. You’re such a good girl.” Shit. She’s crying. “What is it?”

“Tell me again.”

So he does. Slowly in and bottoming out and he tells her no one has felt better than this, been as good as she’s being. He thrusts gently and he works her with his hand, taking her back to that edge until she falls. She’s shuddering beneath him and he’s tumbling not long after.

Body stretched on top of hers, he holds her close and strokes her hair and it’s not even noon.

They’re not even anywhere.

_Fuck._

This time he’s taken Granger down with him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is how we endure pandemics. With self-indulgent Dramione fics! Hope everyone is safe and well. Enjoy. <3

Hermione is not a prude.

She is so far from a prude, she’s one of those grotesque misogynistic words she’s heard like slag or whore. Disgusting. Gross and wanton. Her body thrums, magic singing from her hair down to her toes. Draco’s weight upon her, she’s hot and sweaty and there’s a sticky mess down below. It’s sore. It’s great. She can breathe and she can’t. Her heart is in her head and her stomach is in her throat. It’s too much, all too amazing that it can’t be real; she can’t feel the shame that she should. She doesn’t want to. She wants to take, to taste, to feel all the ways again. She wants to be claimed.

I’m not a prude, she thinks. Not anymore. I never was. I just didn’t know.

Draco stirs. His hands pull against her, by her curls and her waist. He breathes against her shoulder. His fingers are playing, strumming melodies against her skin, writing dirty limericks of how she came undone. Of how she came.

(Three times.)

Oh gods.

She cried. He told her she was good and it was more than she could take, like a dream she held and did not remember when awake. Is she awake now? Did reality fake or did she lose her virginity to Draco freaking Malfoy?

“You okay?”

She’s humming. Nervous song, an annoying tic. Her hands are scratching the cushions when she wants to scratch him. She wants to scratch herself. Wake up, Hermione.

“I…”

Somehow more of his weight sinks down on her. She’s crushed now; so is he. “This was a mistake.” He braces himself on toned arms she wants to drag her teeth along and he looks down on her. “That’s what you were going to say.”

“What?”

“That you regret this.”

“No!”

“Thank fuck.” He smiles. She always thought that he used to smirk and he mostly did but his smiles are there. They always were, she just didn’t notice. He’s too gorgeous to be real but she doesn’t think he’d like it if she said that. He leans down. “Granger.”

“Hm?”

“This is probably going to ruin your life but you’re the best I’ve ever had.”

“Really?”

“Really, truly.” He kisses her. _Oh_. “An Outstanding in shags.”

She groans, laughs, lets her hands have free roam of his hair as her mouth opens and she moans her approval. Kissing never felt like this before. Lips and tongue and the catch of teeth. He does something to her bottom lip that has her squirming. His hands are all over her again.

He’s looking down and she’s watching him look. Those silver-gray eyes that move like mercury are swallowed by black as his pupils dilate. He lifts one hand and his fingers trail from her breasts to her stomach to her pubic hair and further still. They stroke that hot sticky place and lift to show fluids, red and white.

“It didn’t hurt?” he says.

She shakes her head as he paints in blood and cum on her torso and leaves the shape of a giant M.

Malfoy, she thinks. There’s a bruise on her left tit from where his mouth sucked her soul to the surface. Another mark made by him.

“Mine,” he says and licks whatever is left off of his fingers.

Hermione is not a prude, but then what the hell is he?

* * *

He strokes himself as she potters (pun most definitely not intended) about the room, searching for discarded clothes.

Hermione Granger in nothing but clunky brown loafers and white knee-high socks is the stuff of untapped fantasies.

This is the time before reality kicks in, the witching hour but it’s lunchtime, not midnight. Drag it out like his hand tugging his dick. Make it last longer. He covers his eyes as she presents her peach of an arse before him. Not playing fair, he thinks. The dream will soon be over. Another plan smashed like a cursed mirror and left to burn on a fiendfyre rubbish tip.

“We need to see Minerva,” she says, casting whatever spell she requires—contraceptive and/or cleaning charm or a self-inflicted _Obliviate_. Her wand pauses on her stomach and she leaves his possessive M, debauched monster that he is. Merlin, Granger. He spills into his palm. “Are you listening?”

“No.”

Her bra and knickers are on now and she’s shrugging into a shirt. Draco stands and cleans himself with rapid wand-work. He tucks himself back into his trousers. He lets her retrieve his robes from the ground.

“Here.” She stops before him, staring at his chest again.

“You can touch,” he says.

“We’ll never leave.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

She shoves his clothes against him. “Be serious.”

I am, he thinks, but he puts his shirt and tie back on as he watches her slip into her skirt.

What have you done to me?

“I’m hungry,” he says.

“What?”

“Let’s eat lunch. Minerva can wait.”

Granger’s mouth opens and closes but no sound comes out. It’s adorable and that’s not a word he tends to use. He’s really fucked.

“Trust me, you’ll feel better if you eat.”

Her arms are folded, one hip jutting out, and he wants to strip her down to her socks again. “You’re just delaying.”

“So what if I am? Even a hanged man deserves a last meal.”

* * *

“They can tell you’re not a virgin,” Draco whispers.

She elbows him in the side as they walk. They are fully dressed and returned to some semblance of normality and yet everything is different. She is different. She’s not voiced the fear aloud and yet somehow he can tell.

He can tell because everyone is staring. It’s all because of breakfast but there’s a giant M for Moron on her chest that they must be able to see. Martyr. Maniac. Mudblood. Even that would be better. M for Mediocrity. It’s a sign of the future. She bloody hates divination. There’s still science to magic, not quackery over tealeaves. Malfoy hates it too. M for Malfoy. _Mine_. Oh god, they can all see through her.

There’s a scar on her arm that she likes to hide but she’ll show it to everyone now just for the distraction.

“You’re no good at this,” he says.

“No good at what?”

“Not caring.”

“Of course I care.”

“Why?”

She’s got no answer for that. It’s just what she’s always done. Given her adolescence to this school. Risked her life in a war for a place that still barely accepts her. She cares because it’s all she knows how to do. Caring and winning and fighting for a cause. What cause?

“Welcome to my world,” Malfoy says and holds open one of the Great Hall’s doors.

Inside the room falls silent like a spell has just been cast and it has been by her presence. She’s so magical, she doesn’t need her wand or her voice; just her existence is enough to turn the world on its head. Ron looks over from the Gryffindor table, arm in a sling and face in a scowl. Ginny whispers something that’s supposed to placate him but his features crumple even further.

Courage. Bravery. Determination, she thinks.

Daring. Nerve.

Chivalry.

Draco’s hand nudges at the small of her back. She’s not alone.

It’s like the aftermath of battle for lunch, except this time she’s on the losing side, a side who stands tall and unwavering beside her. She’s a Gryffindor exiled from the pride and allied with the world’s most venomous snake. A lethal pair. Who would dare? She smiles as she follows the current Head Boy to the Slytherin table.

The benches are already cleared for their arrival. Draco gestures for her to take a seat, her back to Ron and her house’s table, then he sits on the other side.

“They can definitely tell,” he says, gracefully filling his plate from the steaming dishes before him. “Don’t look.”

She wants to so badly but doesn’t because he says so. Damn that voice. She can’t resist him.

“I walk like a whore now,” she says with a sigh and Draco spits out a mouthful of water.

* * *

Wit.

It should come first in the list of Slytherin qualities. Or at least second to his favorite: self-preservation.

A keen mind means a sharp tongue and, besides a wand, it is a wizard’s strongest weapon.

Granger is a warrior of words. She makes him laugh. He finds himself readying for a verbal duel in her presence and he relishes the challenge of whatever she will throw at him. He wants to make her laugh in return like a successfully landed hex.

Before the war, he was weak in body as well as mind. He let himself wither in fear and regret, and he refuses to do that again. Beyond needing to get stronger for his Quidditch-playing ambitions, he won’t let any part of who he is fail. He has built up walls in his mind and muscle to his frame. He at last got the growth spurt his parents’ stature promised and he ate and he ate. He is hungry now, starved for the chance to escape his ruined childhood and make something better.

Wherever he ends up, he will live up to his tainted name.

Granger’s laughing hysterically now as he wipes his face with a napkin and it’s one small victory in a war that’s ongoing. He laughs too. People are looking as if they’ve gone mad and they haven’t; the rest of these idiots are bloody insane.

“Eat,” he tells her and returns to his own food. She quietens down and he feels her gaze on him as he hears her cutlery scrape with the telltale signs of unrefined breeding.

“Thank you,” she says.

“For what?”

She shrugs.

“Elbows off the table, Granger.”

She flips him her middle finger as she does.

Wit without words. He might be falling in love.

* * *

“Mister Malfoy. Miss Granger.” Minerva now stands at the head of the table. “A moment of your time, if that’s not too much trouble.”

Her gaze is withering, one eyebrow raised like a poised guillotine. Hermione shrinks and Draco coughs. He stands before she does and she follows behind, trailing the black billowing robes of Minerva like an ominous cloud.

There is silence until they reach the Headmistress’ office. Draco holds out a chair for Hermione and Minerva seems to bristle at the gesture. Chivalry by the lions is dead. The gentleman ex-Death Eater sits down after the women have and elegantly crosses his legs.

“I do not need to explain why you are here.” Minerva steeples her fingers with thin and wrinkled but still powerful hands resting on the large desk that lies between them. “What we must discuss is appropriate punishment. However, I find myself in the unusual position of requiring the Head Boy and Head Girl to discipline themselves.”

“Minerva—” The look Hermione receives has her shrinking even further; Draco raises an artist’s hand to his temple in embarrassment on her behalf. “Headmistress McGonagall, if I may?”

“You may not.” The voice this time is Draco’s. “I’m the one in trouble, yes? What has Hermione done?”

“I… I absconded from class! And I cursed in front of everyone. I…” She looks at Draco and blushes, remembering, while his incredibly skilled fingers move to squeeze the bridge of his nose.

“Miss Granger, is there something I do not know?” Minerva says.

Draco spares her from the trouble of answering with a question of his own. “Have you interviewed Weasley?”

“Mister Weasley gave his version of events while having his fractured wrist healed and enduring Skele-gro. I am withholding judgment until all versions have been gathered.”

“Tell her then, Granger.”

“I…” Hermione tugs at the hem of her skirt in her lap. How much is she supposed to reveal? And is it important? Will it save Draco from greater punishment?

She feels a large hand cover her own and looks up. “Say what you want to say and don’t try to protect me,” he tells her.

“Stop being a heroic fool.”

“I’m not heroic.”

“Ahem.” Minerva clears her throat, staring between them. “As gratifying as it is to see the two of you get along in your Head roles, could we please try to maintain focus?”

Hermione takes a deep breath as Draco squeezes her hand. “Ron and I broke up,” she says. “We argued at breakfast and he said things that were unfair.”

“He lied to protect his non-existent reputation.”

“Draco!”

“Go on,” he says with a bored gesticulation of his free hand.

“Draco came to help me and Ron got angry; I don’t know why exactly. But he reached for his wand and Draco grabbed his wrist to disarm him. It was self-defense or defending me. Either way, it wasn’t an act of aggression on Draco’s side. He just got caught in the middle.”

“I see. And Mister Malfoy, do you back up what Miss Granger has said?”

“Does it matter?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re going to have to do something about this. I broke another student’s bones. It doesn’t matter why or that I’m Head Boy. It actually makes it worse, since this was all a transparent effort to rehabilitate me. Will the Ministry know? Have I breached my probation?”

“Perhaps you would refrain from making my decisions for me,” Minerva says. Hermione is now holding Draco’s hand with both her own. “I chose you for a reason, Mister Malfoy, though not the somewhat cynical one you suppose.”

“I think you made a mistake,” Draco says.

“No, she didn’t!”

“You’re sweet to me, Granger.”

“Pay attention, both of you.” Minerva glares then takes a breath to compose herself. “You were the best candidates that I had as individuals as well as based on your joint potential. Compatibility matters too and I see I was correct in my assessment. That being said, another student has been injured. So, it is my decision: Mister Malfoy will be suspended as Head Boy for the rest of term.”

“I quit.”

“Draco, please! It’s only until the New Year.”

“I’m not talking about Head Boy. I quit school.” He removes his hand from Hermione’s and stands. “Headmistress, thank you for the chance you gave me. But I’ve seen that there’s no place left for me here.”

“I’m very sorry to here that,” Minerva says. “And I urge you to reconsider.”

“I’ve been thinking about this for a while. Am I excused?”

“If you insist.”

“I do.” Draco bows. “I’ll talk to you later, Granger.”

“Don’t go!” she begs as the door closes behind him.

“What a terrible waste,” Minerva says. “Do you have any thoughts on a potential replacement?”

Hermione looks from the door back to her mentor and bursts into inconsolable tears.

* * *

For some inexplicable reason, Draco goes to his next class:

Advanced Muggle Studies.

He is feeling nostalgic. That’s a bullshit excuse. He’s not sentimental and nostalgia implies a significant length of time to have passed for one to feel anything wistful for that period.

Muggle Studies is a means to survival, a way of escape. His fellow classmates all believe he is mandated to be there. There are only seven in total and one other Slytherin, a well-meaning seventh year whose earnestness makes him seem sickeningly incongruous to his house. In reality, Draco is strangely fascinated by the subject. It’s like ancient history or illicit literature. He is taken out of his world into one so freakishly foreign, he forgets that he’s as out of place just where he is.

That sounds like a sentimental reason. He won’t tell Granger if she asks. She never has, although he knows that she knows he takes the subject. She’s seen his Muggle books, ones that are not even required reading. Fiction is fiction. And science fiction is Muggle magic, he supposes. Isn’t all science a kind of fiction? Technology exists in the Wizarding World but for it to work on its own by that electricity power or other fuels? Until he sees it, it can’t be real. Magic he feels; he lives and breathes it. But if you tell him that he’s made up of tiny things called cells composed of molecules constructed by even smaller parts called atoms, he won’t take your word for it.

Honestly, if Granger knew all his views, he would be excruciatingly embarrassed.

He goes straight from class to the library and reads about aeroplanes as a form of transport. It’s absolutely terrifying. He could fly his broom one-handed across the Atlantic but to put people in a metal box and sit trapped in the sky for hours? Muggles are barbaric creatures. It’s amazing they’ve survived for as long as they have.

He grabs dinner in the kitchens and goes to his Quidditch training. He runs laps after his last teammate has left and no one questions that he might have yelled at a botched play when he hardly ever speaks, unless to confer with the captain. He wants to exhaust himself. Be drained in his body and his mind when he returns to the dorm and is forced to face her.

“Where the hell have you been?”

She is standing with arms crossed as he enters. He opens his mouth to make his excuses, except her wand is in her hand and she’s cast three spells: one to render him silent, one to make him sit and another to keep his arms and legs bound by ropes that emerge from the sofa and the floor.

Hermione Granger is a truly frightening witch.

It’s enough to make him semi-hard. When she settles herself astride his thighs, bunching up her skirt in the process, the situation becomes much starker.

“Talk,” she says.

He narrows his eyes until she releases the silencing spell and he splutters. “Shit.”

“What are you doing?”

“I was aiming for bed after a shower. That okay with you?”

“Don’t be smart.” She pulls his hair. “Why are you going?”

“Why d’you care?”

He can see that she’s been crying and she’s about to start again. But her eyes are hard and she’s shaking with anger based on the force that she’s now exerting on his scalp.

“You bastard. Why don’t you care about yourself? Does nothing matter to you? Do I—?”

“What? Does this have something to do with you?”

“Stop it! Stop pretending!”

He’s good at it. And he’s mad and he knows. He’s just not going to be the one to say it.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You’re throwing your life away.”

“Wrong! Ten points deducted.”

“You’re giving up.”

“You’re a shitty liar and you don’t know a thing about it. So get to the fucking truth. Why does it bother you so much? Come on. It’s not about me, Granger.”

It is all about him and his dumb luck and his tragic heart. He fucks but he doesn’t feel so readily. It’s an all or nothing process, like putting yourself on a broom and trusting entirely in your magic. Flying is magic at its most elemental. The times he has fallen for something even magic can’t define might as well be nonexistent.

So she’ll have to be the one to take the leap this time. As much as he knows she hates flying, she’s the brave one, not him.

“I don’t want you to!” she yells at last.

He smiles in satisfaction and relief. “It’s nice to hear you say it.”

“You avoided me for the rest of the day.”

“I knew you’d be mad.”

“I still am.”

“Are you okay?”

“It’s so awful. They all just stared and whispered about me. People I thought were friends never even came to ask how I felt. Only you. Since when did that happen? I don’t want to be here without you.”

“Then don’t.”

“You mean—?”

Even a snake can show courage. Or stupidity. In his limited experience, he’s found that they are one and the same. “Come with me, Granger,” he says.

“No.”

 _Fuck_.

“You don’t know where, you stubborn Gryffindor.” Cunning and resourcefulness; he carries these in spades. “This place will suffocate you,” he tells her and he’s not even lying. “It’s sucking you dry. And I’m done. Not because of your precious Weasel, but snapping his arm gave me the clarity that I’m ready now. Look at me, Hermione.” She does. She’s so fucking obedient and his erection is straining against her soft weight. “I have a plan. It’s sort of changed in the last few hours but it goes like this: at the match against Gryffindor this weekend, I’ve arranged for an American scout to come see me play. If I get signed, I’m going and if I don’t I’m leaving anyway. I know you don’t like one jot of confusion or uncertainty, but think of it this way: if I catch the Snitch and crush your shithead house then you are mine and you belong with me. If history chooses to screw me over again then forget it; I don’t deserve you anyway.”

“You’re such a dumb fucking romantic,” she says, sniffling. That he may be, but it’s not like she’s any better. Is it being clever? Intelligence makes you expect too much. He’s tried to burn himself of idealism but there are dreams that are like a drug, like the strongest fire-whisky. Disappointment hurts but the world’s full of more masochists than sadists.

“Then you’ll consider?”

“It’s not even been a day.”

“But it’s been an age, an epoch change.” He lifts his pelvis against his restraints, and she shifts so perfectly against him. “Will you come with me, Granger?”

Her hands let go of his hair and take hold of his face. “I never thought that I could hate it here but I would if you left.”

“Is that a yes?”

She leans down and lets her lips hover over his. “You better catch that Snitch.”

Hermione kisses him and lets the ropes release. His arms crush her to him as she grinds on his crotch. His good but bad Head Girl.

He growls against her throat while she undoes his shirt. “Did they name my replacement?”

“Anthony Goldstein.”

No fucking way that she is sharing a dorm with him.

“If I lose, you’re coming with me anyway.”

“What kind of a deal is—?” but she shuts up when he stands, his hands inside her knickers and her legs wrapped around his hips.

Advanced Muggle Studies has been good for something, he thinks as he walks them to the shower.

He spent most of those non-magic hours imagining something like this.

* * *

Draco moves into her room that night, except he replaces her belongings with his.

The modest double bed is morphed into a grand four-poster. Her mixed blend sheets are swapped for elf-spun Egyptian cotton and a thick silk and griffin-down comforter made by dedicated witch-nuns in Nepal. Their combined book collections require one of her extension charms. Crookshanks is perturbed at first then grows grouchily compliant. She has even seen him brush against Draco’s ankles on occasion, which still elicits delightful looks of horror from her handsome Slytherin.

Anthony Goldstein is an awkward lodger to this unorthodox cohabitation. Minerva ignored his protests since Hermione and Draco are of age and there was nowhere else to safely move the former Head Boy or, at least, nowhere worth all the headache when his Hogwarts career ends in less than a week.

The school is in outrage and Hermione is learning not to care. Especially when she has a strong arm draped across her shoulders and the world’s most disdainful sneer as her shield. Draco is taking great pleasure in their pariahdom. Sexual pleasure, since he shows his distaste for the rest of the world in the way that he can’t get enough of her.

She doesn’t know what she is doing. She’s ignored desperate letters from Harry and long pleading diatribes from her teachers and the disappointed to hateful stares of her former friends and peers. She’s not lonely. She’s ready, though she doesn’t know just what it is that she is ready for.

Her fear feels like the first time that Draco took her flying. Dead of night and she sat side-saddle at the front of his broom, his arms secure around her as they soared to heart-stopping heights. The earth was a black hollow, the sky an endless blanket of silver-gray clouds, heavy and damp and deep, like the eyes that shone as she stared into them.

“Don’t look down.”

She couldn’t.

The broom dropped from below her and she fell for a second at most but her life flashed before her, crushing and violent. With a jerk, she was caught, cradled in his arms as he balanced atop a narrow strip of wood and glided them hundreds of feet to the ground.

“Cool, eh?”

She slapped him. She clung to him so tight. And that was it all: falling and almost dying and waiting to be caught.

It’s stupid to believe in but she does: Draco will always catch her.

“Move,” he says, entering the dorms and waiting for Anthony to vacate the couch. Hermione doesn’t look up from her work but she can smell the sweat and earth radiating off of him. He’s training harder than ever and he doesn’t sleep so much as eat and fuck. It’s all exercise, he tells her. He berates her for still studying but she’s bored when he’s not with her and she’s not quite let go of the safety net that is Hogwarts.

You don’t need a safety net; you have him. No worse advice could ever be given and she would look down upon any witch who acted so carelessly.

That witch is she.

Draco throws his arm across the back of the sofa. “Have you told your parents what you’re planning?”

Where’s this coming from? “Have you told yours?”

He shrugs, watching for Anthony to disappear inside his room. “Mother’s in despair. Father’s denied any letters; I doubt he gets the paper.”

“You don’t care what they think?”

“I don’t have the luxury to base my life on what they want for me. I tried that once and it got me nothing good.” His right hand is scratching his left forearm. He does that sometimes and she’s seen the mark; she’s seen him naked enough. “I still want them in my life but it’s going to be on my terms. What about yours?”

Oh fuck.

“I’ve not told them,” she says, not a lie but not the truth because she does not want to explain this.

“About me?”

“About any of it.”

“Why?”

He’s like a small child lots of the time, demanding a reason for everything, as if accepting what he was told in the past burned him too much and only the unadorned truth will suffice. She gets it; she does, but they all have their secrets and their scars. He’s respectful of so many boundaries but he wants unfettered access to her mind.

“It no longer concerns them,” she says.

He looks at her as if to say one day I will drag the whole sorry story out of you, but he asks no questions further and takes her with him to the bath.

Draco’s body at least is a welcome distraction. She soaps his back and wraps herself around his torso and thinks, don’t let me fall; don’t let me drown.

Please don’t let me regret this.

* * *

The Saturday game between Gryffindor and Slytherin is only meant to be a friendly. Still, the stands are packed and there are members of the press in attendance. Word has got out that it is one of Hogwarts’ most infamous student’s final appearance. The scandal involving the former Head Boy and still current Head Girl also made _The Daily Prophet_ and even the latest edition of _The Quibbler_.

Draco has endured howlers and paparazzi and his fellow students attempting the lamest of tricks. He has endured all of it on the proviso that no one comes for Hermione. If they think his supposed history and reputation is scary, see what happens when they lay a finger on what is his.

He’s possessive but he won’t apologize for that. And she doesn’t complain. She sleeps in his spare Quidditch jersey most nights and she’s wearing it today. She hasn’t seen him play yet. Given what’s at stake, it was tempting to let her maintain a perfect record of complete disinterest in the sport. But his future she cares about. She tells him this in their quiet moments left in the dark, flesh pressed to flesh and warm and sticky in their post-coital shell. He remembers catching her and the dumb risk he took, the precariousness of their existence as his feet kept balance with the earth a distant place. He would never drop her. He would never cause her harm. But she is meant here, in his arms, in this dangerous life he is still fighting for.

She cares about his future and he wants her with him. Selflessness and selfishness. Gryffindor versus Slytherin.

He sits in the Slytherin changing room, tightening the straps on his wrist guards, checking the set up on his broom. His younger teammates are running around with a panic unbecoming for their house. Draco only hears white noise. The world is a blur around him, left in soft focus like an impressionist painting. He has no fear because he has faith in himself. It has been hard won, not bought. His childish arrogance that his father could throw money at everything and all would be his is long gone. He never won a thing that way and winning is not the same as being earned.

This is for her. She doesn’t know it yet. He didn’t know when he planned it all but he will save himself and the Gryffindor princess from this slow death fate.

He stands, ready now, the speech of the captain shifting into audible words.

“… and it’s our last chance to win this for Malfoy.”

“Spare me.” Draco moves to the center. He’s one of the tallest amongst them, despite playing Seeker. His build might have changed but he’s still the fastest flier in the school and his team know it. “Fuck this up and I’ll come for you all. You’ll be begging to be Hufflepuffs when I’m through, believe me.” He sees fear permeate the room and smiles. “Don’t look so worried, you little shits. I’m going to win this, with or without your help.”

He leads the team out into the center of the field, whispering last-minute tactics to the captain. The roar of the ground sounds far away and there’s no time to look for Granger. The Gryffindors are already waiting, Weasel fixing his helmet and putting on his gloves, a brace still visible around his right wrist. This game is not a friendly. It’s not just sport. Blood will be spilled and his future will be decided. For once Draco is excited for the fight.

Each player takes position and mounts their broom. The balls are released and his eyes follow the Golden Snitch, his dream on bewitched wings. Blood and magic run hot and fast through his veins. He floats; he rises.

The referee throws up the Quaffle, and Draco flies like he’s fleeing his grave.

* * *

Hermione knows who the scout is. American wizards look like Muggles. A baseball cap and shades? She pulls Draco’s robes tighter over her shoulders. She wears his jersey as well. His smell and his size keep her warm and comforted. There’s a book in her lap and a floating flask of tea by her arm.

She needs to keep distracted. She’s in the Slytherin stands and might as well be the Golden Snitch. Until the game starts, she is the unsolicited center of everyone’s attention. She can’t concentrate on the words before her and her tea grew stewed long ago. Her heart is palpitating. There’s too much at stake, and she hates this stupid sport. People get hurt; deaths have occurred. Why couldn’t her lover prefer chess? Bad choice, Hermione! She squeezes her eyes shut and groans.

Next to her, Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini are sipping fire-whisky from a shared hip flask and discussing stats. They didn’t return to school but they chose to be here. Draco never talks about his friends, though there is no one else they’d be here for. Their conversation is boring, their eyes always half on her. For sneaky Slytherins, they are not subtle in their furtive observing.

“What’s Draco wearing?” Zabini says.

Her eyes dart to the playing field. The teams are only just being announced. She hears soft chuckling beside her.

“Eavesdropping is rude,” Nott says.

“So is staring.” Hermione closes her book and folds her arms. “Shall we stop pretending that we’re ignoring each other?”

“A welcome and straightforward approach.” Zabini offers Hermione the hip flask, which she accepts. “Potter couldn’t make it?”

The alcohol is a much better warmer compared to tea. “I wouldn’t know,” she says and stands. The players are on the field.

“Girl Weasley sure got fit,” he adds. “Lucky Potter.”

But Hermione is not looking at the Gryffindors. She is not looking at anyone except the tall and beautiful blond in green. She is such a lost cause but that uniform is made for him. She wishes she could see him close, see his face and touch his hair and wish more than the lame good luck she offered as she kissed him at the dormitory door.

The game starts. She’s not sure of all the rules but the balls, Golden Snitch included, are sent into the air and the players soon follow.

Draco flies like he was born to, sleek and sure and moving effortlessly as he dodges a Bludger and acts as decoy while one of his Chasers scores their first goal. Nott and Zabini shout wildly beside her. Draco slaps the younger player on the shoulder and nearly sends her off her broom. Gryffindor respond with a strong attack. Ginny is fast enough to play Seeker as well but her aim is better than anyone’s and the lions strike back. The game is mostly back and forth like this. No one has a particularly weak defense but this is going to be won by points and goals and, ultimately, whoever has the better Seeker.

The Snitch is proving elusive and Draco is circling the pitch, keeping watch while having his teammates’ backs. The Beaters have their eyes on him, Ron in particular, who diverts one Bludger towards him, falling into his trap and allowing the Slytherins to take the lead.

It barely missed Draco that time and took out a chunk of wood from the post it struck behind him. Draco moves, unfazed, while Ron grows more erratic. She was frightened for this. It’s judged a Cobbing foul when Ron flies directly past him and his elbow lands against Draco’s ribs. Draco keeps his balance but did nothing to block the hit. You knew he was going to foul you, you loon, she thinks. He doesn’t appear hurt but Hermione feels sick. This game is the bloody worst.

Two hours of this torture. Gryffindor’s Seeker takes a Bludger to the leg, which is pronounced broken. A Slytherin Chaser is felled after accidentally colliding with the opposing keeper and carried off on a stretcher. Turns out it was the captain. Draco takes over the reins and calls a time out. It’s raining as the teams hover, drenched and covered in dirt. She can see him yell but can’t hear what he’s saying. She’s soaked too, cold and frightened and exhilarated. She has yet to give Blaise back the flask, and she’s downed what was left.

Oh gods. Who is the Seeker for Gryffindor now?

The commentator makes the announcement, and the crowd goes deafeningly wild.

“Fucking typical!” Nott is drinking whisky directly from a bottle now. He passes it around while Blaise yells obscenities and Hermione feels the floor drop from below her.

The Gryffindor’s pinch Seeker is none other than Harry Potter.

Catch me, she thinks. Don’t fall. You can do this.

Draco flies past their stand and salutes. The Slytherins cheer likes it’s the House Cup final, like it’s them versus the world. In a way it is and she understands now. This is where the post-war losers sit, the hated and the hateful. She is amongst those who wanted her dead. But the side she fought on doesn’t seem to care that she’s alive. It’s the loneliest place, like being the Seeker.

You have one job and the rest doesn’t matter. Don’t worry. Don’t think. Just look.

That’s what Draco had told her. So Hermione stands, cold and proud and wrapped in her boyfriend’s robes, and she looks and she sees him.

Draco is flying like no one else is watching, only her. Harry is on his tail but he’s out of practice; his broom is too slow. The Snitch is arching upwards, ever higher, before it shoots back towards the ground. Draco turns first in a perfect loop, darting like a missile aimed at the earth. A Bludger strikes the tail of his broom as Ron yells and the crowd all intake their breath as one. Draco’s broom is swerving and he’s still pitching downwards, one hand gripping the handle, the other outstretched as the ground closes in.

He’s going to die. He’s going to die, she thinks.

Shut up, Granger. Just look.

Draco crashes. He pulls up at the very last moment and takes the impact with his legs, body and broom spinning over and over through mud and grass. He stops on his back. The rain still falls and the world turns silent. Hermione keeps looking.

Don’t lie. Don’t die. Don’t make me regret this, you sodding idiot.

A gloved hand rises into the air, the Golden Snitch secure in its hold.

_I said I would always catch you._

Hermione can’t stand anymore.

* * *

The first thing Draco sees is the face of his nightmares looming above him.

“Not bad, Malfoy.” Potter holds out a hand and, since his body is too damaged to obey him anymore, Draco’s Snitch-free arm shoots out and accepts it.

He struggles to his feet. The wind is still knocked out of him and the rain is pouring down. It’s deafening, an endless roar that reverberates like thunder and he looks up. It’s not the noise of the rain; it is the crowd.

“You okay, Malfoy?” the Weasel says and he doesn’t have any answer. He is looking through water and clouds and the mud and blood that’s falling in his eyes. He’s looking for something, like the prize he holds in his left hand. The reason for everything.

He trudges through the mud, grunting as his teammates slap him on the back and yell their congratulations. He trudges through the mud ignoring the flash of cameras and the boring questions of vile journalists that wouldn’t know the truth if it came with an exclusive and a giant’s kick up the arse. He trudges through the mud and calls his broom back into his hand. There’s a fracture close to the tail end but his _Nimbus 2001_ is still in one piece. The first broom he ever rode here and the last. He’s as sentimental as a bloody Hufflepuff. He’s going to scream. Fuck this place. Fuck everyone.

He mounts and flies, not quite so steadily, up to edge of the Slytherin stands.

She’s there waiting for him, Nott and Zabini on either side, their dumb faces grinning and swearing at him. He ignores the bottle of fire-whisky they offer and goes for something far more potent.

“Talk to me, Granger.” He tosses her the Snitch and she almost drops it. “Are you still in?”

“Yes,” she says.

He shoves his useless friends aside as he leans in to kiss her. She tastes of booze and blood and mud, a mudblood cocktail and he’s never tasted anything better. “Let’s get out of here.” He lifts her, squealing, from the stands and sits her in front of him.

“Isn’t this thing broken?” she says.

Her arms are locked around his neck and his arms are around her. “Damaged but functional,” he assures her, steering them clear of the grounds. He nods over her wet frizzy mass of curls at the only person wearing a baseball cap and shades in the entire stadium. He’ll have to get used to the terrible fashions, he supposes. He probably should go to the infirmary. He really shouldn’t be flying for much longer.

Hermione’s eyes are squeezed shut, and she’s missing the pandemonium they are leaving behind.

“I’m not going to drop you,” he says.

“I know. Just let me enjoy this.”

He laughs. “You look fucking petrified.”

“I am, you arsehole!”

“Can you get used to this?”

“What?”

“Coming to watch me play?”

“No. But I’ve made a plan.”

“Do tell.”

“I’m becoming a healer. It seems like a prerequisite if I’m going to be with you.”

“Healing school?”

“I’ve made enquiries to one of the programs in Massachusetts.”

He alights at the main entrance to Hogwarts and sets her on her feet. “You’d decided already?”

“Yes.”

“You might need to start your training now.” He looks at Hermione and kisses her soundly. “I think I’m going to faint.”

* * *

Draco doesn’t pass out before they reach the infirmary. Hermione helps Madam Pomfrey lay him on a bed and is left to assess his wounds while the Matron returns to tending to the other injured players. Quidditch really is the worst sport ever.

He is quiet as she removes his uniform down to his underwear. His torso is bruised and his face is bloody. Luckily his legs survived the crash-landing with only a few superficial scratches and abrasions. She casts a spell to clean him and herself. She has mud all over from when he kissed her and had his hands in her hair and hauled her bodily onto his broom as if it wasn’t the last thing that she wanted to do.

Draco post-Quidditch game, victorious and dirty sat astride his broken broomstick, hair a disheveled mess and blood dripping from his brow, might be the sexiest thing she’s ever seen. She is never telling him that, though she suspects that he might know.

His eyes are closed when she applies various balms across his chest and makes him swallow a healing potion.

“You’re good at this,” he says.

“Hush.”

She makes him down a calming draught next. It just so happens to be one of his specials.

“Tastes familiar.”

“Go to sleep, Draco.”

Soon he does and she settles a blanket over him and a warming charm over that.

She sits by his bedside and looks. She can’t believe that he’s hers. She can’t fathom that this is her future but it feels right, to take care of him. Damaged but functional. “I’ll catch you as well,” she whispers and presses a kiss to his now unblemished brow.

“Merlin’s tits, you guys are worse than a _Witch Weekly_ column,” Theodore Nott declares, barging past the cubicle curtain.

Blaise Zabini follows behind him, taking a long drink of fire-whisky from the rapidly emptying bottle. “Granger, I’ve become sick too. Please take care of me.”

“Flirt with her again and I’ll have your balls shrunk down to pixie dust.” Draco is still awake. Hermione wants to disappear down into pixie dust as well.

She snatches the bottle from Blaise. “He’s all yours,” she says and runs from the room.

Back in the corridors, she drinks the last dregs and wills the heat to leave her cheeks and move down her throat. Let it settle in her stomach and digest. She is an embarrassment. Draco heard her whisper and so did his friends. She didn’t say I love you, hasn’t yet, but she might’ve done and she might’ve meant it as well.

Her walk back to her dorms leads her past the Great Hall. The doors are open and the Quidditch crowds are rammed inside in celebration since the weather has only gotten worse. She hears chants for Harry and looks in to see him surrounded by friends at her old table. She remembers happier memories sitting there, but there’s no hole in her heart or imagined gap where she should be. Time moves forth and she is moving forward, a new chapter to be written. _Hogwarts: A History_ will need to be updated.

“You going in?”

She turns to find Ron stood behind her.

“No.” She shakes her head. They haven’t talked since their awful breakfast altercation. He looks recalcitrant now, if he should know what it means. Still in his Quidditch jersey and with helmet hair that does not become him, she feels a warmth that goes older and deeper than the fire-whiskey she has imbibed. “You go.”

“You sure?”

“I’ll be fine, Ron. It’s for the best.”

“If you say so.” He rubs the back of his neck. “He treat you well?”

“Yes.”

“And where is he now?”

“The infirmary. Two cracked ribs and multiple bruises. You did a cracking job.”

“Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me. I suppose now you’re both even.”

“Yeah.”

“Take care of yourself, Ron.”

“You’re not going to see Harry?”

“Not now. Not here.” She hands him her contraband bottle of fire-whisky; there’s maybe one shot left. “Have a drink on me.”

She knows her place and she needs no liquid courage to go back the way she came. Draco is truly asleep and his so-called friends have drawn graffiti all over his body, including a crude ejaculating penis on his forehead and _PROPERTY OF GRANGER_ across his abs.

“Get away from him,” she snaps and they scarper, but not before taking her hands and placing a kiss on the back of each. “Bloody Slytherins. You’re all a bunch of slimy snakes.” But there’s no real venom as she magics all the ridiculous marks away (though _PROPERTY OF GRANGER_ stays) and climbs onto the bed beside him.

“You might still be able to hear me,” she whispers, “but I don’t care anymore. I love you, Draco.” No arm comes up around her and no sarcastic retort can be heard. “Oh well.”

* * *

Hermione loves him.

He might have dreamt it, but her name is written across his stomach (okay, so he still recognizes the author’s script) and it appears that he belongs to her.

It fades after he showers the next morning. He packs up his things and shrinks his luggage down to fit in his pockets. He foregoes breakfast and sneaks away at lunch to take one last flight over the Quidditch field.

She is standing in the center waiting for him when he comes back down.

“Thought I’d find you here,” she says.

“Just savoring the taste of victory.”

“It’s okay if a part of you is going to miss this place.”

He holds his broomstick in one hand and takes Hermione’s in the other. “Anything I could miss is coming with me. It’s a moot point. Stop trying to project your grief.”

“Stop being such an insensitive prick!”

“You don’t love that about me?”

“I…”

Ha! That shut her up. They walk back to the school in silence (awkward for her, relishable for him).

“I’m leaving tonight,” he says as they reach the entrance.

“I’m not ready yet.”

“I know. Just I have to go. They want me in America.”

“Where?”

“Massachusetts. The Fitchburg Finches made me an offer that I couldn’t refuse.”

“What was that?”

“Being in Massachusetts.”

She throws herself into his arms and his broomstick clatters to the stone ground. Maybe he only needs one thing. Maybe his plan led to her all along.

“I do bloody love you,” she says.

“I know.”

“You’re supposed to say it back.”

“Why?”

“Oh my god!”

“It should be apparent, Granger.” He lowers her onto her feet and takes a step back. “You were never once part of my calculations but now you’re like the missing ingredient, indelible, as crucial as crushed salamander tooth.”

“You’re going to remind me of that Potions assignment now?”

“That is how I say I love you.”

“It needs work.”

“I’m a hard worker.”

“Hard work.”

“I love you, okay?” And he does. It comes easy. Like flying. Like leaving Hogwarts behind him. Magic and the indefinable, the things he cannot see. There’s a right way down and a wrong way up. He’s not clamoring to be let back into this world when there’s one he can make and fill with what’s important to him.

“You’re like an atom, Granger,” he says.

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Advanced Muggle Studies.”

“Do I really want to know?”

“I was hoping you’d never ask.”

He’ll reveal all that he does not know to his shame and her schadenfreude one day. And she’ll tell him about her parents. And he’ll introduce her to his. And if they stay together and it becomes something more, they can share the strange and dumb fucking romantic story of Hogwarts’ first post-war Head Boy and Head Girl.


End file.
